Still mulling over Wednesday's conversation and the long afternoon of questions, slight confessions, and grasps at truth. Grateful for trusted mentors who are several steps ahead of me who can look back and say that they've been through that too. In these conversations about our worth/identity/value and even our journey in our ethnicity, he reminds me that I'm, "what? twenty-four?" Just twenty-four. I wish I could say "cusp of adulthood" because it sounds so dramatic, but I've been an adult. Just...now in a highly-pressurized area of growth, I guess.
But man. Twenty-four years of life is really not that long. I'm impatient about growth, laughing off some bitter sarcastic question on if I'll figure out some of these identity questions by the this time next year. Because that'd be really nice, you know. But in truth I know that's not going to happen. That even in a decade I'll still be so young to really know who I am, what makes me tick, where my deep brokenness lies, and where redemption and healing is sweeping in.
I'll be a little closer, but even so there'll still be a long ways to go. A long ways of brokenness and beauty, I suppose.
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